Rain in LA

It doesn’t rain much in Los Angeles. 35 days per year on average, that’s it. Today is one of those days, and of course I promised a friend to meet him in West Hollywood. 35 days a year is apparently not enough to teach people how to drive under these circumstances, so of course I get there way too late. My friend is pissed and so am I.

After a few beers we both feel better. I decide to leave my car over night and we head over to the Roosevelt. I hate bougy places like this, but my out-of-town visitor thinks it’s a great idea. New bar, same beer. Three rounds later, a short but attractive girl hits on my friend and convinces him that we should join them at a house party in the hills. I’m reasonably drunk and don’t have any objections.

It’s 2 A.M. by the time we get to the house. Some rich frat boys converted this once beautiful home into a party dungeon. Lana Del Rey is singing about denim, and I’m meeting fifty new people at once. Someone foolishly suggests that his casa is my casa, so I pour myself a generous amount of Scotch from the bar. The Talisker they have is old enough to vote – fucking rich kids.

Most guests seem to hang out on the enormous couch or play pool in the dining room. Since the rain has stopped we decide to claim the backyard. I engage in a conversation with a tall dark-haired girl, more out of boredom than interest. We chat about mundane things and make out like teenagers.

It’s dawn by the time we head home, and the sky transforms into a beautiful orange-pink-blue gradient. It will be another sunny day in LA.